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INTRODUCTION 

MASLAH-UD-DIN SA'DI AL SHI- 
RAZI 

ALTHOUGH there is avail- 
able more information con- 
cerning Shaikh Sa'di, the 
Nightingale of Shiraz, than about 
most of the Persian poets who lived 
prior to his time, there is yet so 
much uncertainty that one who at- 
tempts to follow his career along 
the byways of fragmentary and 
conflicting biographies is apt, finally, 
to abandon hope of definitive truth. 
When subjected to analysis, how- 
ever, most of these uncertainties 
may be seen to arise from a dispute 
over the date of his birth. That 
this event took place at Shiraz is 
conceded by all, but the time is set] 
by different authorities at anywhere 



from 1175 to 1195 A. D. There 
is also some, but not so much, dif- 
ference concerning the date of his 
death, which is variously stated to 
have occurred in different years 
from 1290 to 1293. Sir Edwin 
Arnold makes the positive state- 
ments that he was born in 1193 
and that he died in 1292, but he 
throws a shadow upon the authen- 
ticity of his information by saying, 
in the same sentence in which he 
records the date of the poet's death, 
"the legend is that he had reached 
the wonderful age of one hundred 
and eight years." 

The fact is that during the latter 
part of his life he was a very fam- 
ous man of letters, so that his death 
no doubt created a profound im- 
pression and was recorded by a num- 
ber of persons; we may feel reason- 
ably sure, then, that 1292 is the 
actual date of his demise. But, al- 
though his father is said to have 
been a person of some social stand- 
8 



m<^m^®t>^w>*3® 



ing, it is probable that not much 
note was taken of the child's birth, 
and that few suspected, for a good 
many years, the presence in their 
midst of an "inglorious Milton" who 
was yet to become a master of song, 
bearing the laurel of more than a 
Milton's prestige and popularity. 
Small wonder, then, that a trifle of 
twenty years of doubt exists as to 
when he made his entrance upon 
the world's stage, or that a decade 
of this disputed score pursues and 
plagues us whenever we attempt to 
decide his age at any epoch of his 
life. For instance, we know that 
he went through an extensive course 
of study at the great College of 
Bagdad, where, according to Mo- 
hammedan custom, he devoted much 
of his attention to a thorough in- 
struction in the religion and laws 
laid down in the Koran and its 
commentaries; but we do not know 
his age at entrance, or exactly how 
long he remained a student. 

L 



m^&r^&^m^fm 



SA'DFS LITERARY PERIOD 

We shall better appreciate his 
work, perhaps, if we remember the 
state and distribution of the world's 
culture in the period during which 
he wrote. For six centuries Europe 
had been sunk in the darkness of 
ignorance and barbarity that fol- 
lowed Rome's downfall, while, dur- 
ing the same time, Arabian and 
Persian science and art flamed and 
flourished at their best. Persian 
poets had been singing in strains 
of unexampled beauty, and Sa'di 
was a representative of the period 
when his country's literature was 
upon the verge of its great decline; 
but in Europe there were only faint 
stirrings of the beginning of a new 
literature that was to build itself, 
slowly and painfully, with a varied 
and strange architecture, upon the 
ruins of the glories of Greece. Sa'di 
was at the zenith of his power when 
Dante was born, and it was a cen- 
10 



tury later when Chaucer wrote the 
first real poetry in the English 
tongue. If we keep in mind the 
frightful intolerance of European 
religious opinion of that day, and 
the dramatic picture Dante offered 
us of Heaven and Hell — undoubt- 
edly a reflection, in its best form, 
of the views then generally held — 
and compare these with the views 
offered us by Sa'di, we shall cer- 
tainly come to the conclusion that 
the Persian was a man of very ad- 
vanced and liberal intelligence — 
quite a modern, as we would now 
phrase it. 

From Bagdad, while yet a stu- 
dent, he made a number of pilgrim- 
ages to Mecca, and finally embarked 
upon a career of travel that carried 
him over all western Asia and most 
of northern Africa. At the time of 
beginning these travels his age is 
stated by some to have been fortj^, 
and by others thirty. A little re- 
flection will indicate that the latter 
11 



7\ 



is probably the more nearly cor- 
rect. 

He was the Marco Polo of the 
East, and a great deal more beside. 
In his wanderings he traversed all 
the various provinces of Persia, and 
the foreign lands of Palestine, 
Syria, Armenia, Mesopotamia, Asia 
Minor, North Africa, Egypt, Arabia, 
and India; and when, at last, he re- 
turned to his native city, he was an 
old man. Just how old is, again, a 
matter for dispute. Some say he 
was over sixty — others over seven- 
ty. Either computation is made 
from his own statement that he 
spent thirty years in travel. 

At any rate, he settled down in a 
little house to which was attached a 
garden that was his heart's delight, 
and it was there he wrote most of 
the books and verses that have been 
handed down to us as the Master's 
work. Although, as an old man, he 
was always ready to meet The 
Guest, Death did not claim bim for 
12 



many years, and the venerable man 
became truly the object of the love 
and veneration of his people, and 
of the admiration and envy of kings. 
"Aside from matters of date and 
age, for which we look in vain in 
the chronicles of others, Sa'di has 
told us enough of himself that we 
can set down a few things further 
as facts. For long he found a con- 
genial home at Damascus, and at 
that period was an enthusiastic ex- 
pounder of the gospel of Moham- 
med; but, whether due to the chang- 
I ing of his own religious views or, 

I as he intimates, to growing disgust 
with the materialism and unrespon- 
I siveness of his audience, he at last 
i took offense, he says, with the so- 
I ciety of his friends at Damascus, 



and retired into the wilderness of 
Palestine, where he sought only the 
companionship of wild animals. 
13 



^ 



CAPTURED BY CRUSADERS 

At that time the Crusaders were 
operating about Jerusalem, and 
Sa'di had the misfortune to fall into 
their hands. They were not gentle 
hands, and he was packed off and 
set to digging, as a slave, in the 
trenches of Tripoli in Syria, where 
an old friend from Aleppo discov- 
ered him and ransomed him for the 
sum of ten dinars, to his immediate 
great delight and subsequent vexa- 
tion. This friend took him into his 
home and shortly married him to his 
daughter, with whom went a dowry 
of a hundred dinars. The poet does 
not say with what readiness he en- 
tered into the compact, but under 
the circumstances there could be no 
rejection of such a proposal. 

Poor Sa'di found that his flight 
had indeed carried him from the 
frying-pan to the fire. 

"The damsel," said he, "turned 
out a termagant, and displayed so 
14 



perverse a nature and so sharp a 
tongue as to destroy all my domes- 
| tic comfort. A scolding woman in 
the house of a quiet man is his hell. 
Save us, O Lord, and protect us 
from such a fiery torture!" 

In a tirade, one day, she taunted 
him: "Are you not the fellow my 
father ransomed from the Franks 
for ten dinars?" 

"Yes," he replied, "I am that same 
he ransomed for ten dinars and en- 
slaved for a hundred." 

This marriage is one of the few 
things over which he displayed a 
real bitterness of spirit, and as 
everything else we know of him in- 
dicates that he was one of the gen- 
tlest of souls, his trial must, indeed, 
have been a grievous one. However, 
he seems to have been able in some 
way to release himself from his 
bondage and, later, while sojourning 
in Arabia, proved that he was not 
altogether daunted by his previous 
matrimonial experience by marry- 
15 



^i^^^mt^m~i^m 



ing a woman of Sanaa, the capital 
of Yemen. That this union was 
probably a peaceful one appears 
from the fact that he had little to 
say of it except with regard to the 
birth and death of a child, over the 
loss of which he mourned deeply. 

He discountenanced all extrava- 
gant pretensions, and condemned 
everything savoring of fraud and hy- 
pocrisy. Not only does this appear 
in what he has to say of his asso- 
ciates and fellow believers, but his 
actions showed that he was fear- 
lessly ready to attack such falsity 
wherever he found it. Once, while 
traveling in India, he visited a 
temple in which was an image that 
moved its arms, apparently without 
exterior aid, greatly to the awe of 
all beholders. Sa'di's suspicions be- 
ing aroused by this alleged miracle, 
he concealed himself at a point from 
which he could watch proceedings, 
and discovered a priest manipulating 
the limbs by means of a rope. Sa'di 
16 



was so angry at the deception that 
he overturned the image and tumbled 
the priest into a well, but he barely 
escaped with his life from the rage 
of the temple occupants and its 
faithful devotees. 



SA'DI'S WRITINGS 

Sa'di left a considerable body of 
literature in both prose and verse, 
but it was as a poet that he made the 
greatest impression upon his con- 
temporaries, and that he will go 
furthest and live longest among us. 
At the same time, he wins our re- 
spect as a sage and a philosopher. 

His poetry covers a wide range. 
Much of it is beautifully lyrical, 
and shows, in his earlier years, a 
certain struggle against what he 
must have felt, as an Iranian, to 
be the unnatural repressions of Is- 
lamism as administered by the dom- 
inating Arab thought. Later, when 
he embraced Sufism, as was inevit- 
17 



able to a man of his broad and 
warm-hearted views, he was no pre- 
tender, nor was he ever carried off 
his feet by the senseless enthusiasms 
into which some members of the sect 
precipitated themselves. He im- 
partially condemned botli the hypo- 
critical pretenders whose robes of 
blue were but cover for licentious- 
ness, and the enthusiastic ecstatics 
who permitted their excess of zeal 
to carry them into all sorts of ex- 
travagance. 

His best known works, both at 
home and abroad, are The Bustan 
and The Gulistan. These, taken as 
a whole, are somewhat didactic in 
character. Along with his Pand 
Nameh, they are, therefore, much 
used as books of instruction in the 
schools of both Persia and India, 
and in the former country there is 
scarce a school-boy who is not fa- 
miliar with their contents. What is 
so valuable to his countrymen must 
surely be of some worth to us. 
18 



THE GULISTAN 



The Gulistan (The Rose-Garden) 
is the work with which we are here 
chiefly concerned. It was written 
during the author's old age, in Shi- 
raz, after he had returned from his 
world-wandering and retired to his 
little hermitage, to live out the re- 
mainder of his days surrounded by 
peace and beauty, and to give to 
others the benefit of his experience 
and his observations during his 
journeys, upon which, he says, "I 
communed with many strangers, 
found something profitable in every 
corner, and drew a blade from every 
sheaf of knowledge." Sa'di the 
traveler was now Sa'di the sage and 
the prophet, his remaining object in 
life being to give to others all he 
could of what he had learned. He 
was not one, however, to offer his 
lessons as so many doses of medi- 
cine; although there are sometimes 
a few bitter herbs, they are all 
19 



sugar-coated with the poet's natural 
wit and good humor. He was never 
a man of gloom or severity. In his 
youth he had not put aside available 
hours of mirth, in his maturity he 
had deprecated all braying of either 
hell or heaven, and his age was but 
a ripening and mellowing of his 
earlier years. 

Still, it is unlikely that The Gulis- 
tan in its complete and original form 
could achieve any sort of popularity 
among us. A melange of prose and 
verse, it is divided into Gates, or 
Chapters, each of which includes a 
number of lesser divisions that have 
a general, although sometimes a very 
remote, bearing upon the subject for 
which the Chapter is named; and, 
as is the custom of Persian authors, 
things are scattered very much at 
hazard, with but little attempt to 
keep up a connected and orderly 
chain of thought or expression in 
either chapter or book. Usually, 
each of the lesser divisions consists 
20 



&<&&M?^&iiyB 



of an anecdote related in prose, 
often manifestly from Sa'di's per- 
sonal experience, followed by some 
lines of poetry that either repeat the 
sense of the story or set forth a 
moral to be drawn therefrom. 
Sometimes several verses follow the 
prose relation, and sometimes these 
contain much the stronger expres- 
sion, the prose appearing only to 
amplify and illustrate the leading 
thought. These verses are con- 
structed upon various metrical 
forms, some being couplets and some 
quatrains. There is much repeti- 
tion of the same, or very similar, 
thought, in varying language — an- 
other characteristic of the Persian 
and Arabian author — and sometimes 
an appearance of contradiction that 
is apt to seem to us pure inconse- 
quence. Persian and Arab alike are 
greatly given to proverb-mongering, 
and there is somewhat too much of 
that for our tastes. 

Let us suppose, now, that we were 
21 



offered a purely Persian table diet. 
Of however high a class the food 
might be, and however much it 
might be recommended for its bene- 
fits to the stomach, it is probable 
that our tongues and palates would 
find it far from pleasing. Never- 
theless, that would not justify us 
in rejecting, forthwith, all articles 
of Persian food; indeed, we have 
actually found many of these de- 
licious when properly selected and 
prepared according to our own 
recipes. 

In precisely the same way, if of- 
fered a purely Persian literature— 
a literal translation, let us say, of 
their masterpieces, with all their 
forms and figures of speech pre- 
served — we would find it really dis- 
tasteful to eye and ear, so different 
are their likes and dislikes from 
those to which we have been edu- 
cated. Yet we should not arbitra- 
rily reject all Persian literature, as 
has been the unfortunate tendency 



«*Mr*^w^»3^a 



of the undiscriminating past, which 
has ignorantly regarded it with a 
superior contempt. These Oriental 
peculiarities may be so modified that 
the old Persian's soul shall shine 
just as clearly through his poetry 
as it did the day he intoned it in 
his rose garden of Shiraz, or in- 
scribed it, with painstaking care, 
upon his tablets, and yet its sing- 
ing may be in a voice with which our 
ears are more in tune; and so it will 
be the more likely to reach our 
hearts. 

Now, in the work of every poet, 
whether he so design or no, there 
is a certain record of his life and 
a certain index of his true self. 
Leaving aside all extraneous matter 
and all that is non-vital and super- 
fluous, however much good may be 
so excluded, I have sought for this 
record and this index in Sa'di's Gar- 
den; and at last I believe I have 
been able to find and identify them 
by culling some of his roses and 



transplanting them into a garden of 
my own. 

Our work must be either all verse 
or all prose. I have, therefore, 
omitted all prose, except that in two 
or three instances, where the idea 
was essential or the expression pe- 
culiarly apt, I have versified a few 
lines of prose and incorporated them 
into the poetical body. It was nec- 
essary to adopt a single metrical 
system, and, as a few of Sa'di's 
verses had the ruba'i form, now fa- 
miliar to western readers and almost 
considered as peculiarly Omarian, I 
adopted it for all, although in fact 
the greater number are shaped in 
other molds. It commended itself 
as most appropriate because it fit- 
tingly carries the average music of 
the originals, and is certainly best 
adapted to their terse and epigram- 
matic expression of comprehensive 
thought. Instead of seeking to keep 
a remnant of the old order, I have 
tried so to adjust the sequence of 
24 



m^^^^^mm^m 



the quatrains as to obtain the great- 
est continuity of subject matter, 
with the most smoothly flowing 
method of presentation. 

So long as the desired effect could 
be secured, I have followed closely 
the language of the originals, but I 
have not hesitated, when it seemed 
best to do so, to sacrifice literalness 
to results, provided always that 
what I conceived to be the author's 
thought was adequately reproduced. 
Excepting the first quatrain, which 
seemed necessary to relieve the 
abrupt opening of the story, I have 
included nothing that is wholly my 
own invention; all the rest may be 
found in Sa'di's work. And even in 
this first quatrain the idea is at least 
suggested by Sa'di in his prose in- 
troduction to The Gulistan, telling 
of the night spent in a garden with 
a friend, when he announced to the 
latter that he was engaged in plant- 
ing a garden with roses whose "blos- 
soms shall not fade with the falling 
25 



of the years." Almost boastful lan- 
guage it seems, but time has proved 
that he correctly estimated the value 
of his work. 

Undoubtedly Sa'di was, from mid- 
dle life to old age, a thorough Sufi, 
but his belief was tempered by in- 
tellectual and worldly wisdom. He 
was no ecstatic, like Jellal-ud-din 
Rumi. Occasionally he gave expres- 
sion to the uncertainty that must 
exist in every reflecting mind, but 
he did not entertain the demon De- 
spair or counsel banishing him by 
unlimited resort to the wine-cup, as 

I did Omar in his earlier quatrains. 
We see in him only a little of 
the sensualism that obtrudes itself 
through the music of Hafiz. He 
was none of these; and yet, being 
none, he was something of them all. 
Jellal-ud-din is an evangel, suited 
to our moments of rare devotion; 
Hafiz lives with us in our hours of 
ease, of freedom and indulgence; 
Omar storms the outworks of faith, 
26 



occupies the citadel of our intellect, 
rules us with the inevitableness of 
his conclusions — and leaves us with 
a vague chill when we attempt to 
take over again the functions of our 
own government; but Sa'di has fur- 
nished poetry suited to all our life's 
occasions; he is the friend and the 
counsellor of all, and a guide that 
no man need be afraid or ashamed 
to follow. 



USE OF SYMBOLISM 



Along with most of the exaggera- 
tions and perversions of Sufism, 
Sa'di rejected, or used but spar- 
ingly, its language of symbolism — 
of the wine and the cup — of the 
lover and the Beloved — and where 
he used such terms he did so in a 
manner to leave little room for con- 
troversy. For instance, in the quat- 
rains from seven to sixteen, follow- 
27 



ing, it appears to me a straining 
after whimsical theories to contend 
that he meant anything but a real, 
live, flesh-and-blood girl; although 
there are advocates for the substi- 
tution of "God," "divine spirit," and 
such fanciful terms in even these 
passages. On the other hand, in 
quatrains fifty-four and fifty-five, 
while there is a possibility that he 
spoke here, too, of a woman, I am 
of the opinion that he used his terms 
as symbols of The Divinity. As to 
quatrain sixty-four, there can be no 
doubt at all that, in the original, he 
spoke of God under the guise of a 
beloved woman. However, as the 
retention of his symbols would have 
caused a confusion of imagery in 
this and the immediately preced- 
ing and following quatrains, be- 
cause of my rearrangement of 
their order, I have paraphrased the 
language for the sake of consist- 
ency in the picture, so that this 
appears with a greater literalness 



r, nm ■ i ■'■ " =» 




of expression than it had as Sa'di 




Wn 


wrote it.* 


1^9 




* Mr. Cranmer-Byng's translation of 






this quatrain is, 




My love is nearer me than is myself, 




Yet I am still estranged from her heart. 




What can I do? To whom shall it be said, 


■\£4 




She bides with him, and he lies far 






apart? 




V^T k *V 


Inasmuch, however, as it is found in 




If an account of a sermon delivered at 


H£"7] 


Damascus by Sa'di, the text for which 






was the line from the Koran — "We are 






nearer unto Him than the vein of His 






neck" — Sir Edwin Arnold has given a 




more appropriate, if less exact, trans- 




lation, as follows: 

A friend more near than I myself to me, 






And yet — most wonderful! — I cannot see, 


R^ln 


Nor hear, nor know, nor speak one word 


mPfm 




to Him 






Who yet lives in my blood, bone, vein 






and limb. 






He continues, nevertheless, in Sa'di's 






language of Sufi symbolism: 






"I was intoxicated with the wine of 


w ZIJ*! 


l£/| 


mine own discourse, and the dregs of 
the holy cup were at my lips, etc.'* 
29 




1^ f^afc ^ v ^1"*^^/ * * rP^tSr^ *m ifflfi* 




yv-^WTOM nr inmiU tgfcVi* MUim 4KrmM*im mmj 



I have consulted a number of 
translations with the object of cor- 
recting or reinforcing my own in- 
terpretations of Sa'di's meanings, 
but it was from the condensed and 
succinct little volume by L. Cran- 
mer-Byng and S. A. Kapadia that I 
caught the idea, and afterward de- 
rived great assistance in working out 
the plan for what I conceive to be 
a sort of resume of Sa'di's intellect- 
ual and spiritual life, as it is sup- 
plied for us, however undesignedly, 
in his own work. 

Beginning with some introductory 
quatrains, it relates the natural ex- 
perience of the youth, his love, his 
despair at the loss of his mistress, 
and the pessimism into which ado- 
lescence falls at the other extremity 
of its ecstasy of passion. Proceed- 
ing, then, with his conclusions re- 
garding the mutability of worldly 
power as exemplified by king and 
courtier, he pictures what must have 
been the result of his observations 
30 



Qft^MT^A 



i 



in the petty and turbulent courts of 
western Asia, in which Persian, 
Arab and Mongol contended, with 
violence and treachery, for the mas- 
tery, and passed in rapid succession 
through their most unstable and un- 
profitable periods of rulership. 

Next is portrayed the application 
of a critical and philosophical mind 
to the problems of religion — a ques- 
tioning of the narrow faith of ortho- 
doxy — a stage of agnosticism — a 
gradual acceptance of the universal- 
ism of the Sufic philosophy — the 
middle-aged man shedding a worn- 
out shell and slowly settling, almost 
in spite of himself, into one more 
commodious and suitable for the 
spirit that is to inhabit it. For a 
while he is not fully at home, and 
we see him uneasily exploring its 
more remote and unfamiliar cham- 
bers. 

Finally, the old man, contented 
and at peace with all the world and 
with his God, having absorbed what- 
31 



m^^im^Mmm 



ever knowledge he could during a 
long and rational life, now devotes 
himself to giving to the world, im- 
pressing upon us the simplicity of 
the secret of his contentment; secure 
of the past, satisfied with the pres- 
ent, and confident of the future. We 
may all take from his Garden the 
lesson that to work, to be honest, 
to gain and to make our own all we 
can of knowledge that is truth, to 
be just, to be unselfish, and to give 
to the world all we can of the best 
that is in us, is to obtain immortality 
— like Sa'di, to live again in every 
flower that blows. 



ROSES FROM SA'DI'S 
GARDEN 




m^m^m^^w^m 



ii 



Is't not enough to breathe the odors 
sweet 

Within these groves, forget the mo- 
ments fleet, 
Witched into Dreamland by the 
nightingale, 

And by these Ormazd pearls beneath 
our feet? 



35 





T^jjSV^/JLJI K^?aKA Va^g S#"l 






III 




5\j 


With jewelled nets our robes the 

wind has strung; 
About our feet the streams have 

shackles flung, 
And o'er the vines, to tempt our 

straying hands, 
The clusters of the Pleiades are 

hung. 




L^y 




i 



mnt^m^^^j^^rm 



IV 



Why fill your skirts with basil and 

with rose? 
Shall guest the Gardener rob? Too 
well He knows 
The folly of your never-ending 
quest — 
'he frail impermanence of all that 
grows. 



WJ^%^mt ^Mr^M 



^^mr^m^r^^m 



V 




But with my pen I'll plant a 


virgin 


field 




With roses that shall need no 


other 


shield 




'Gainst Winter frost or 


desert 


heat than they 




Beneath their crimson robes 


may 


bear concealed. 





mj^m^ak^^Mm 


® 


VI 

Take but a blossom from my Guli- 

stan, 
And wear it, fadeless, for thy mortal 


8- 
t 

ft 




span; 
So Ardib'hist 3 shall come, for us, 
to be 


i 




A new, although a lesser, Ramazan. 
******* 

37 . 




®>ri§U^>i-<g>>-yg , | 





__1MM» ' " ■■JIMJM m I ju = lliill ' "m ■'■■■ l*t 

n fSffl^T^Hyll Si^bBf-^* v^/B SMTM LI/1 




VII 






Once, in my youth, I plodded down 


f(f5! 




a street 
That lay, an oven, 'neath my aching 
feet, 


■Mkw 




And fell, at length, beside a gar- 


k\<hJ 




den wall, 






Well-nigh to fainting of the Summer 


CaV 




heat. 




LC^if 




IwJJ 










VIII 




/vH 


When lo ! from out some hidden por- 


PfrV^ 




tal stept 






One like the Dawn when Rainbow 




K'tI 


Light has slept, 
With eyes two fountains of the 
Draught of Life 
Aglow within a cavern's dusky 




|C^/4 


depth. 

38 


K4 *j 



%^®j^mmmmm 



IX 



Between her hands she bore a silver 
bowl, 

Snow-cooled and sweet, with per- 
fumes rare that stole, 
With strange device of magic to 
distil, 

From out her golden heart the 
Rose's soul. 




» >«■« i'M iT''''¥ i *m 1*1 


V^^KS^^SL^J^^L!^2St^^^^rSS^^K>^j 




XI 


t^fJI 


ffcj 


One drunk of wine awakes at early 

dawn, 
To find the sparkle of the wine-cup 


HkV 


tfe/J 


gone, 
To stagger, contrite, from the 
tavern door — 


■SMi 




I'm drunken of the bearer — I dream 
on. 


itffjj 




Hir|^^vMHSy?Av3S>SP^ k T*!8Sj 




/^Bj 


XII 


n^Vi 




Pray hold your warnings! Why 


lYm ' 




should I attend 




K*Yi 


Upon the words you say are wisdom 
when 
My Happiness and I are Up to 
lip? 






Ho! Lovely Saki, bring the cup 






again. 


L"\<f ' 




40 




K+Ju 







XIII 

All Maj nun's 4 madness now I un- 
derstand ; 

Let any one of this reproving band 
Who sits at table when she shall 
appear 

Beware the wounding of his care- 
less hand. 5 



mmmMmmm^m 



XIV 

Seek not to stay me, for if Love 

should call, 
I'd rise and go to her, though I 
should crawl, 
On bleeding hands, adown a way 
of swords, 
That on her threshold I might, 
dying, fall. 
******* 
41 



^"V^®^®^®*^®! 


1 


XV 


$ 


§ 


Ah! let the roses strive to soften 


% 


# 


doom. 


\' 


t 


She who, in playfulness, once spread 
their bloom 


P 
wl 


y 


About her for her slumber or her 
rest, 






Sleeps where they cast their petals 
o'er the tomb. 


I 

7&t 


^A 


XVI 




9fe 


Crushed with my anguish, I be- 
sought with tears 
The ripened counsel of a hundred 




I 


3 


years. 
O Graybeard! show the Way of 
Rest, I cried; 
His answer was an echo of my 




? 


fears : 

42 




^>^%^6X^S>-*^S'J| 







XVII 




wiz^M 


In vain dost thou petition Rest to 


fSi 




stay — 


KJ 




The Banquet-Master's jealous of 






delay ; 




Kg/fl 


Scarce are we seated with the 
motley throng 


ss^y 




Of careless feasters, when He cries, 


r« 


[feu 


"Away!" 


1C**.«2J 




XVIII 






Behold yon withered dame with lus- 
trous dye 
Upon her fading tresses. Can her 




ffSl 


eye 
Make such bold mimic of the 
youthful fire 
That it may lure the moments as 






they fly? 


K4 <j 




43 




jjjHj^fcvjj B^(ST3B Xt^fi^E] 





XIX 

The leaden years no charms trans- 
mute to gold; 

The tender leaflets of the Spring 
unfold, 
But to be withered by the Autumn 
blast, 

And turned by Winter into sodden 
mold. 



WitK^^Wt^b^® 





XX 






The lordly lion, king 


a little 


day, 


Makes mighty 


havoc 


with his 


hap- 


less prey; 








But Time despoils his bravest ar- 


senals, 








And brings him to the 


jackal's 


feast 


of whey. 6 










-it— 




,, 







l^y 




XXI 






Why seek you, man, the power o'er 
men to rule? 


K$ 




To plant, like Khosayib, 7 your land 
with wool? 






The crown but seldom sits on 






Wisdom's brow; 
The royal robes too oft adorn a fool. 








IV£j*' 









m* 




>. 


XXII 


^*ll 


By cast of dice is Fortune's favor 




won; 
The sage is by the mimming ape 

outrun, 
And left but wonder to his grief 

console — 
30 it has fallen since the world 

begun. 


I 


45 



p 




m 


1 


XXIII 


$ 




The seer may win but hunger, grief 

and pain; 
The clown be dowered with a golden 

rain. 






What matter if the scale go up 
or down? 






The loss to one is but another's gain. 




ffir^jiHE^s^Hft^^lpI 


i 


XXIV 


i 


-1 

s 

1 


Though woeful want reduce the 

truly great, 
The lamp of honor lights his dismal 

fate; 
Though golden hasps secure his 

silver door, 
The knave's a knave, and cannot 


I 




change his state. 
46 


5- 


«»«l»<4«*£*i*« 



■faoS 5Sr7avK SC^vW SH'*\1 




tSBi^&3i fmm^^BMmm mmTM \\ 




XXV 






Better, with freedom, is a crust for 


K5! 




food 


SBlv 




Than royal banquets bought by ser- 






vitude ; 




rjff 


Better be tattered, in the garb of 
toil, 
Than golden-girdled, with a courtier 


te*B 




brood. 


i\£UM 


/«J| 


XXVI 


myi 




This world upbears us for a single 


NU 




tide, 




K^ii 


On which we're cradled — and then 
cast aside; 
So lift to none but God appealing 
hands, 




|C^j4 


For other succor is at last denied. 

47 


kC« 




r^MsP^v^^Br/Al^E^ffFe^SSn 




(Oka 



XXVII 






Xt wants but little till the 


days 


are 


flown, 






And you are called to 


meet 


the 


Guest alone; 






What matter if he find you in 


the 


dust, 






3r come to hale you from 


a gilded 


throne ? 







XXVIII 

!VIahmoud the Mighty, with his flam- 
ing sword, 

Left roads as empty as a hollowed 
gourd, 
And stranger kings who honor not 
his name 

Within the palaces where he was 
lord. 



48 



XXIX 

The glories of King Nushirwan the 

Just 8 
Remain forever in his people's trust. 
Be generous, O Friend! Your 

deeds shall live 
When you have long since mingled 

with the dust. 





XXX 


Gold and 


dominion are of little 


worth ; 




Naked you 


enter, so must leave the 


Earth. 




Where has Youth traveled, my 


Brother ? Come ! 


Pledge us 


a, sequin for an hour of 


mirth. 






49 



XXXI 

If you from others would the pay- 
ment claim 

Of such a tribute as a Kisra's 9 fame, 

Make no rejoicing at another's 

fall, 

Nor soil the fairness of another's 
name. 





^T/r^YsS 






XXXII 




The mole so 


long has 


burrowed in 


the night 




Of under 


g r o un d , 


away from 


Heaven' 


s light, 




The sun is 


hideous to his dazzled 


eyes; 






The rose is 


but a thorn in Envy's 


sight. 








50 


^ ] 



W^9^^Mfy^4fr^m 



XXXIII 

O upstart mummers of pretentious 

lies, 
What boots your sober aping of the 

wise? 
Save turban, girdle and the robe 

you wear, 
There's nothing yours that men do 

not despise. 



w^m^mt^bmm 



XXXIV 

Then let us hence to seek some quiet 

land, 
Where, far from all, our hermit cell 

may stand; 
So shall we 'scape a war of futile 

words, 
And all the venom of this howling 

band. 



51 



w^®h^m^®-iv® 



m^®^<®>^®^® 


k\ 


XXXV 


* 




Yet, should I see a pit upon the way 




My fellows tread so blindly day by 


{* 


day, 


N 


«* 


How could I e'er amend the griev- 




>8f 


ous fault 
If I should speak no word to bid 




'X: 


them stay? 


i(»> J, 


mmw^M^^&mrm 



XXXVI 

Two knaves at odds without the 

Pilgrim's booth, 
The Muslim swore, to prove his 

word was truth, 
To live henceforth, if it were 

false, a Jew; 
The Jew a Mussulman would be, 

forsooth ! 



w^^^m^4fr^m 





Ml— MM ill "■""•"i'im'i "Will II '") 




XXXVII 






Who has the truth — these brawlers 






of the street, 
Or grave scholastics at the Hakim's 


fl^k^VS 


fe/J 


feet? 
Not one, I fear, would fallacy 
confess, 
Were Wisdom shrouded in her wind- 


it^vW 


UjuJ 


ing-sheet. 


LS£j*i 


f/JB 


XXXVIII 


n*Yi 




Who chooses for his guide the blind 


PM 




must be 






Of little wit. Of what avail a tree 






Turned noble torch and borne 
aloft to show 
The road, if yet the bearer cannot 
see? 




(C^^j 


53 


r\<j 



m^m^mmm^m 









XXXIX 




What use the rosary and Dervish 




dress, 




If they're but cover for licentious- 




|/"\jj ness? 




The robe of blue 10 may nought 






but curses win; 




§2S 


The Tatar sheepskin God Himself 




ILjJJ 


may bless. 


58 


R^^^aSJKSK^Nl^^ SjWrp 




XL 

[f he forbear from raven croak of 

Hell, 
When Abu'l Farez X1 bravs of 


1 




Heaven, 'tis well 
If ruined Istakhar 12 fall not in 
dust 




f(<0^ 


3efore the fury of his noisy spell. 
54 





%^t®^mt^®n^ 



XLI 

Veil, let them preach! Such labor 

is in vain, 
he moths about the candle all are 

slain 
In ecstasy of seeking; yet it 
flames, 
Oblivious to their rapture or their 
pain. 



yr ^v )VV8li J92flP 




XLII 




"ate will not alter for our 


prayers 


and cries, 




And Kismet's heedless 


of the 


widow's sighs ; 




The Keeper of the Storehouse of 


the Winds 




?eels no compunction when her lan- 


tern dies. 




55 




Jt. J&^SC^vl^Jn^f' ^r »^ 


Kf* Vfi^S^ 



«VS-«^»*-y«s^»l 




XLIII 


1 


£ 


The Lord Iskander 13 no Omega 




!• 


knew 


■Jv 


k 


Till Death stole in — and all began 


& 




anew. 
wretched hunter! cease your 




% 

£2& 


vain pursuit; 
One still more subtle is pursuing 




! 


you. 


wfcs 


(!§^<P^»^^ 


% 


1 

i 


XLIV 

Should any seek The Loved One's 

form to know — 
What eye has seen Him, and what 

tongue can show? 
The lovers all by Love are slain. 

Alas! 


% 

■i 


1 


None stays the ravage of the twang- 
ing bow. 

56 






#1 



m 


" ■BuiMMIM ■■ I ■■ m Willi II MM MMM 1*1 


1 


XLV 


l 


i. 


Though for a single word of truth 

we yearn, 
All that we know, all that is ours 

to learn, 
Is that pale Death's the Keeper 

of the Door, 


1 


m 


And from that School no pupil may 


;2> 




return. 
******* 


l 


f^^^^ 


# 


XLVI 


i 


s? 


Within the palace of Bagdad there 


% 


4 


rose 


£ 




A sudden quarrel 'twixt two casual 
foes — 
A silken Curtain and a dusty Flag, 
Vexed with fatigue and rent with 




® 

y 


recent blows. 
57 




®*££M^flfrMrt*« 



^ w - MMM y^: liwi in i «i ■hiimim '"■- m 1*1 




XLVII 




uy^ 


"Why," said the Flag, "should you 


rCvi 




be held so dear; 


Efrm 


IfefijBy slender, moon-faced boys be 






cherished here, 






Caressed by j asmine-scented 


kSs*J 




maids, while I 




^3jB 


Am reckoned but a piece of soldier's 


c^w 


yyj 


gear ? 


L)£j»4 


'jteBSSItt^^ 


PVdcJ 


XLVIII 


n^Tl 


"I'm ever foremost in the battle-line, 


bTH 


While you in ease and luxury recline, 




Secure from strife and wind and 




burning heat, 




And all the hardships that are daily 




mine. 


bv ^J 




58 





r «m^^^mt ±®~*M& 









XLIX 






"Yet on the march I'm borne by 


f?5| 




careless bands 


mSm 




Of raw recruits, by whose irreverent 






hands 




te/J 


I'm soiled, and wrapped in suffo- 
cating folds, 






And trailed, head downward, through 


CSH 


yyj 


the desert sands." 


lift JJ 



mszmmm^Tm^m 



Then spoke the Curtain: "I have 
humbly laid 

IViy head foot-level. You have 
vainly made 
Flaunting defiance of the Sun. 
Whoe'er 

Exalts himself is by himself be- 
trayed." 

59 



wmm^m^m^m 



W>iMfciWr7r&>f& 



LI 



If any shall offend you 'tis but just 
To cleanse your heart with pardon. 

Since all must 
Return again to dust when life is 

done, 
Take warning, Brother — that you be 

but dust. 



l®>sr<GgK ^m^^w^^m 





LII 




Above a russet mound of new-mown 




hay 




I saw a golden flush of roses play, 




And thought, "How dare this 




ragged Mendicant 


So flaunt presumption in the face 


of day?" 




60 



m^4^&*fm&?m 




LIII 


f 


cS 


"Brother/' it said, "scorn not the 


m 


*/" 


lowly things; 


\* 


t* 


All are, to Him, as worthy as the 


*s\ 


w 


kings 


VK 




To whom you bow. This Rose 
His servant is, 




,*. 


And I, the Grass that in His garden 


m 


1® 

i 


springs." 


1 


4fr 


i*rasi^~<m?> ±m^£~im 





LIV 




O God! make 


me an 


ant, for men 


to tread 






Beneath their 


feet; my least desire 


has fled, 






For waspish stings. 


I only ask of 


Thee 






That great or 


small 


may ne'er my 


presence dread. 




* * * 


-* 


* * * 




61 





LV 

From The Beloved's hand there 

came to mine 

A bit of plastic clay, of texture fine 

Breathing perfume that stole my 

sense away; 
"Is this/' I cried, "of ambergris 

divine?" 



LVI 

"Nay, Friend, it is not so," I heard 

it say; 
"I, who for long beside her beauty 

lay, 
Have sipped the Attar of the 

Rose like wine; 
But for Her Essence I were onfrfi 

clay." 



LVII 

Oh ! Thou above all human thought 

supreme, 
Above our every word or deed or 

dream, 
Thy service closes and we quit 

the Mosque, 
Yet of Thy meaning scarce have 

caught a gleam. 



LVIII 




To whom from Thy decrees shall I 


appeal ? 




Thou art the Judge; Thou bearestl 


sword and seal. 




Whom Thou denyest 


none mayj 


ever guide, 




But whom Thou guidest 


no distrust 


shall feel. 




63 





fl^v! 








LIX 

Before the I that's I had ceased 

to be 
The senseless germ transformed by 

Thee to Me, 
Thou gavest mind and reason, 

grace and speech, 
Judgment and soul, and power to 

feel and see. 






iffrA i Sfiian^^mSi "gRft! 




■S3 


LX 

Ten digit subjects of the ruling head 
Thou hast bestowed; yet I, the 

debtor, dread, 
In beggar faithlessness, Thou 

may'st forget 
To furnish me, henceforth, my daily 

bread. 

64 


U**\ 







LXI 






To-day, while 


yet 


the 


power of 


speech is mine, 






Through every 


word 


let 


truth and 


beauty shine; 






To-morrow, 


when 


the 


Messenger 


is here, 








He'll not reprieve me for a single 


line. 






• 



m^^m-^mmm^rm 





LXII 




Behold! the 


payment 


from the 


thirsty pi 


ain 




Is stifling dust for Heaven's cooling 


rain; 






So I, poor v< 


sssel, offer 


only words, 


For sound is 


all the 


substance I 


contain. 








65 





LXIII 

The nightingale proclaims the com- 
ing Spring, 

And owls the news of dire disaster 
bring; 
Oh! surely I shall not be held to 
blame 

If I refuse the owlet's song to sing. 



mn^th^m^>m>rm 



LXIV 

To God's beloved ev'n the darkest 

day 
Is lighted by the beams that through 

it play; 
Without His aid can any human 

soul 
From out the dark evoke a single 



ray 



66 





Ij^ ii ? (lii j! BSri8iiiw ^v^Ssyl 




LXV 




UjtJjJ 


His Being's nearer me than is my 

heart, 
And yet I know Him not. Oh! 

would the art 
Of words were mine to solve the 


J31 




mystery 
That Thee of Me and Me of Thee 




\h*M 


are part. 


i(g»Ju 



m^4h^mi^^W>rm 



LXVI 




If The Beloved Friend shall bid me 


die, 




Think not that for a longer 


life I'll 


sigh; 




My one appeal shall be 


that I 


may know 




That deed of mine ne'er gave 


offense 


On High. 




****** 


* 


67 









TO 




LXVII 






Each birth-time of the hyacinth and 


K? 




rose 






This garden 'round our hearts its 
witch'ry throws; 




yi/J 


Come still, with Spring, O Friend, 
when I am gone; 
Sa'di shall sing in every flower that 




«Mai 


blows. 


§C"-V 


el 


LXVIII 




t^vJ 


I've spent a lifetime in the search 

for lore, 
And now give counsel from the gar- 




f?Si| 


nered store; 
If it should fall upon unwilling 
ears, 
I've given what I have — I can no 




Krfl 


more. 

68 





m<@h^mt^®>-*vs 





LXIX 


Oh! thou 


who mayest read The 


Gulistan, 


Pray Allah, 


if it fit His larger plan, 


To grant 


unto the author and the 


scribe 




Such mercy 


as He may to erring 


man. 





m^m-^m^G&y^r® 



LXX 

Ask that the owner of the book may 

yet 
Forgiveness find, should he The 

Friend forget 
And fall aside upon the way. 

Thyself— 
Request the boon on which thy 

heart is set. 



NOTES 

1. The coming dawn. 

2. The hour of morning prayer ap- 
proaches. 

3. The month of February in the 
calendar year beginning at the Vernal 
Equinox. 

4. In Arabian tradition, a character 
famed for his unreasoning devotion to 
his mistress, Laila. 

5. The story of Joseph and Poti- 
phar's wife, as related in the Koran, 
dwells strongly upon Joseph's physical 
beauty. Potiphar's wife, finding that 
the city was filled with gossip concern- 
ing the affair, and being twitted by her 
friends with her failure, gave a feast 
to which she invited the ladies who had 
been foremost in the gossiping, and dis- 
tributed among them plates of fruit 
and knives with which to eat it. At 
this juncture Joseph was brought into 
the hall, and so great was the abstrac- 
tion of the ladies, as they contemplated 
his charms, that they all cut their 
fingers. 

70 



lfl^MM8 





H^3t>K Sl^y? ^ ^TtSPmT^SjT^P^Siin^vl 




Irftifi i JfcMM'^'^HBIiiJB ImJ iM 


6. About Persian camps and farm- 






houses the whey from curd and cheese- 






making is poured upon the ground, and 


■/•ji 




is lapped up at night by jackals and 






other prowling animals. 


MU 




7. It is said that Haroun al Raschid 






was so angered by the extravagant pre- 




Hfc^i 


tensions of the ruler of Egypt that, 




Ivl 


when he conquered the country, he ex- 






hibited his contempt by appointing a 




Khb 


negro slave named Khosayib to be his 




K*u 


Viceroy. This man was so ignorant 
that when the people complained that 




Bffi 


unseasonable rains had destroyed the 
cotton crop, he replied: "Well, then, 




^yi 


why do you not plant wool instead?" 




1 


8. In Persian literature the name of 
King Nushirwan is a synonym for gen- 
erosity. 




/*jS 


9. Another name for King Nushir- 


Wfyi 




wan. 




10. The garb of the Sufi order. 


MJ 




11. Father of Asses. 






12. The ruined city known to us as 




|r?si 


Persepolis. 

13. Alexander the Great. 




K<^2 


Tl 


M (j 


jf*jL 


hJB*mC*)S R5?/EsE3R^h^KJtu 



JUN 26 1913 




LIBRARY OF C0 ^ R g? ^ 
III 



022 204 728 6 



